


I'm Weak My Love (And I am Wanting)

by Moonlights_Inkwell



Series: The Bard and Little Miss [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/M, Insecurity, Jaskier is bad at communicating, Jaskier is jealous, Jealous sex, Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Public Sex, reader gets drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27576223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlights_Inkwell/pseuds/Moonlights_Inkwell
Summary: A night of drinking and dancing sees you meeting a stranger. It makes Jaskier jealous. Jealous enough to do something somewhat extreme.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Series: The Bard and Little Miss [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907491
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	I'm Weak My Love (And I am Wanting)

**Author's Note:**

> I've totally mentioned Jaskier being a super jealous lover before, and I thought it would be fun to actually show it. This is super unbeta'd and shit though, apologies for anything being out of character and junk. Enjoy the porn.

You feel the eyes on you before you even really understand what they are, hairs on the back of your neck standing up on end. It’s distracting as all hell.

“Fuck!” 

The word comes out loud and slurred as you stumble over your own feet mid-dance. You’re drunk, or if not drunk then tipsy enough to know that you soon will be- the feeling is more than welcome. Working, fighting as you have been, it leaves little time these sorts of festivities, the kind that reminds you of home. The rush from guzzling down tankard after tankard of sickly-sweet apple cider is unrivalled in its ability to make you feel girlish and giddy. And so, you’re dancing. Or were, as it may be, before you tripped. 

Your compatriots don’t join you, but you rather expected that before abandoning the table. Geralt seldom allows himself to indulge in such luxuries- like smiling, or engaging in pleasantries, so you assume that dancing is far beyond his capabilities. He doesn’t even tap his foot when Jaskier performs catchy, often bawdy songs, in his honour, so this music, pretty but lacking in lyric or any type of familiarity is unlikely to rouse him to his feet. Besides, crowds are hardly something the White-haired man enjoys, standing out like a sore thumb amidst all of the mundane people of the village you’re staying in. 

Jaskier, however, Jaskier staying at the table is a little odder. The bard adores crowds, feeds off of the energy that a group of people exudes and is able to talk to anyone, a trait you find intriguing and intimidating in equal measure, but he's sat. The tavern has a band of bards, all playing in unison to form something overwhelming and beautiful, so there is no chance for him to perform, to wink and sashay about while strumming his lute and lapping up attention. That had rather taken the wind out of his sails when he realised, souring his mood to a point where he isn’t even trying to dance with you.  It had been upsetting at first, how he had essentially ignored you in favour of scowling  and fingering the frets of his lute like the strings will make the other musicians disappear. 

Ever since meeting the bard, you’ve thought him beautiful. Not beautiful, beautiful isn’t quite the right word. He's amazing. The kind of person for whom a natural sort of charm radiates from them, who would be attractive from personality alone, even if he wasn’t one of the most attractive men you have ever laid eyes upon . Ever since the two of you began... whatever it is the two of you have been doing,  he's done his  part to act as if you’re the  only person in  tge world  to him, but right now? He only has eyes for the band.  The coin that he could have earned would have been a godsend, but you don’t care about that right now, all you want is to dance with the bard.  He's just. Sat  there, scowling and sitting instead if dancing with you. 

It’s such a simple thing to bring so much pleasure; dancing, especially when coupled with somewhere to do it, and this tavern certainly feels like an appropriate place for it. It’s heaving, overrun with people you assume must  b locals, all laughing and chattering like they haven’t a care in the world. Perhaps they don’t, their only troubles coming in the form of what ale to drink and who they should dance with. You envy them that. Truly, you can’t remember a single one of your concerns from before you packed up and abandoned your life go travel with a wandering Witcher and his Bard. Logically, you know you must have had them, but not a single one is important enough to linger in your mind. Any domestic issue pales in comparison to fighting beasts, arguments about corsets and how near you may go to the woods forgotten in lieu of how best to fell a Wyvern or exactly where to hit any man who means to do you harm. It’s selfish to envy these people their lives when you know that you wouldn’t trade the life you have chosen for all the gold in the world. Mid-stumble, you catch yourself, and stand upright once more, bringing your tankard to your mouth and draining it before moving to place it on a table, only to fall over your feet once more, flinching for fear of impact with the ground. But it never comes, instead a pair of arms  wind about your waist and tug you up to the body of one of the boys who had been dancing around you. He’s a pretty thing, a mop of blonde curls hanging about wide green eyes that stare at you like you’re a prize that’s fallen into his lap, and you grin up at him gratefully. It takes less than a second for him to tug you closer still and begin another dance, hand on your waist and the other gripping your hand; it’s nice, nice to feel wanted, even if it’s only for a night, a dance- there are worse ways to spend a night than hanging off the arm of some pretty stranger. Serves as a nice distraction from the bard as well. Well, it would be nice, if not for the feeling that you’re being watche d , that has you craning your head to see who it is that is staring. Then, your eyes meet a gaze all too familiar. 

Jaskier. 

His eyes are narrowed into slits, brows knitted together and mouth downturns in a look that you don’t recognise on his face, but know all too well. A scowl. Jaskier doesn’t scowl, that’s a look used by Geralt or yourself, but right now he's scowling at you, glaring daggers into you and gripping the neck of his lute so tightly it looks as if it might break. 

“Something wrong, Pretty Lady?” The blond asks playfully, making you turn your gaze away from the glowering man across the room to meet the eyes looking down at you. 

“Oh. No. No, I just. Thought someone was looking at me.” 

“The man in the red?” He asks, looking straight at Jaskier before chuckling, spinning you about and causing you to fall against his chest once more. “I don’t think he likes me very much.” 

“What?” You ask incredulously, eyebrow raising. It's such a weird thing for him to say about a complete stranger, and you can’t really understand what he means. Jaskier is scowling, yes, but you assume it’s because you’re able to enjoy yourself while he cannot perform. 

“He looks like he might murder me.” The boy tilts his head and leans his head in, mere centimetres from your face in such a way that has you thinking that he might kiss you. “Your husband?” 

His question flusters you, only serving to make your cheeks flush bright red and a nervous laugh to escape your lips. Jaskier? A Husband? The idea of him being wed is so alien, even when applied to you.  You spend too many nights with him curled about you, but you aren’t even courting, never mind  being anywhere close to marriage.

“No!” You say the word a little too forcefully, and your dancing partner grins. “We're traveling partners, he is not my husband.”  You don’t know what you are.  You kiss, settle in his arms like it’s where you belong,  spend far too many nights with him bucking up into you and swallowing  down your moans, but you aren’t courting.  He isn’t your gentleman caller.  Your lover, yes, your friend, always, but you have no clue how to articulate that to this stranger, and so don't.

“The look on his face has me thinking he might wish to be more than traveling partners, Pretty Lady.” He says teasingly, lips brushing against your own with each word. You are more than that, but the alcohol has you tongue tied. You want to kiss this stranger. Well, that’s not entirely true, you want to be dancing with Jaskier and to drag him down into a kiss, to lean in and close the gaps between your lips, but you'll settle for trying to forget the man behind you who cares far more about music than spending time with you. He seems to have the same thought as you seeing as he kisses you suddenly. 

Its soft, sweet, but... felt like nothing. It’s just skin on skin, no different from how his hand on yours feels, and you can’t help but feel disappointed. You’ve only ever kissed one man before, never felt a need or want to either, only ever really wanted a bard who is too tied up in himself currently to kiss you, but every kiss with Jaskier is a world stilling experience, the sort people write songs and poetry about and this feels like absolutely nothing at all. No sudden surge of desire, no need to fling your arms about him, no want for anything at all. It’s deeply disappointing to say the least; like something inside of you is broken, or at least dampened by the alcohol raging through your system. The man kissing you, however, seems to feel something if the quiet moan he lets out is anything to go by, and pulls you closer, but you remain still. You can’t bring yourself to kiss him back, so instead just stand there stock still. Well, stood stock still until you feel a hand firmly grasp your wrist and tug. Hard. The pull sends you stumbling blindly backward, barely able to realise what is going on when you see Jaskier pushing the blond man backwards. 

“Get your bloody hands off of her!” He says, words dripping with poison, audible above the music. The people dancing around you stop their movements and stare at what is going on, at the Bard standing in front of you like a guard dog. 

Your dancing partner  opens his mouth to argue while  surging toward Jaskier who clenches his fists into balls , but stops when you quickly say Jaskier's  name. T his is the closest you have ever seen him to a fight, watching hands that daily cradle a lute clenched to punch someone is so unnatural.

It’s embarrassing, to say the least, to be gawked at by such strangers and turned into a spectacle, and so you reach out to the bard, hand brushing against his back.

“ Jask -” You begin, and he turns to you quickly, eyes initially full of anger, but softening slightly when they meet your own; his hand flies out once more and grabs your arm, painfully tight. 

“Come on, Little Miss,” He says coldly, walking towards the door to the pub and dragging you along behind him. You drag along behind him, and hear the music start up once more, making you scowl at the prospect of missing out on dancing. There goes the chance at nostalgic bliss you had been enjoying. You’re in the street before you really know what is going on, and Jaskier curses under his breath into the darkness of the evening. 

“Shit. Where is the fucking inn...?” He mutters, craning his head about to try and get his  barings once more.  This isn’t where you recall entering, and assume that you must have  left through a side entrance , you’re in some side alley, not the main street.  The iron grip on your arm is growing painful and you try to pull it free, Jaskier's grip doesn’t falter. The air is uncomfortably cold, especially against your warm cheeks, and standing like this is doing little to warm you. 

He’s trying to work out where you go from here, and you’re wondering the exact same thing; just not about how to get back to the inn. He’s gripping you like he wants to bruise you, wants to leave his mark on you and you don’t know what there is you can say to make his jaw unclench or his hands soften. There are no words. Though you aren’t courting, it’s been quite implicit between the two of you that whatever it is you have, it’s exclusive; he and you are not to be... toying about with other people. You don’t flirt with men hoping for free drinks or cheaper rooms anymore, Jaskier doesn’t bed or even flirt with other women, and between the two of you? You fell at the first hurdle, he has remained loyal to whatever this is, and you let some stranger kiss you. Famous flirt and serial seducer, Jaskier, has not tried to romance anyone but you but with a little ale in you and the high of dancing rushing through you, you let a stranger kiss you; not just kiss you, but kiss you in front of Jaskier. There’s nothing you can say that will change that. 

“I’m weak, my love, and I am Wanting.” The lyrics come from your mouth unconsciously. You don’t sing, it’s not something that comes readily to you, but with the ale and discomfort around you, it’s a that you can think to do. Singing is Jaskier's skill, and while drunk you can hardly carry a tune, but you simply need to fill the silence and a song will do. His song too. It feels like an insult, but he turns to you with a smile- all teeth and gums. Like a wolf, a beast, and it’s exciting. Jaskier doesn’t look like a beast, he’s all sweetness and light but given what he’s seen, you suppose it makes sense. You blink slowly at him, and feel him tug you toward him once more, body making contact with his chest and driving all of the air from your lungs.

“What the bloody hell was that all about?” You ask, a little more harshly than you expected it to come out. “I was having a good time-” 

“A good time? Is that what you call letting a little toad like him near you?” He seethes, towering over you in such a way as to make sure you must look up at him. You feel like a child being chided, not someone talking to a man who had until this night been seen as your equal. 

“We were only dancing, Jaskier. I fail to see how he was taking advantage of me by dancing. You and Geralt were hardly going to stop your brooding and be my partner.” You try to argue, but your words come out stilted and unnatural. Arguing with him isn’t natural: Geralt you can argue with until blue in the face, everything said is forgotten within an hour or so, but Jaskier? He remembers everything, pulls it out at a  second’s notice and  is a wordsmith. He knows how to build up or tear someone down with nothing more than his words, and  well at that. Your argument is childish and nonsensical too- acting as if you were only dancing is an obvious lie. You know what happened, he knows what happened. You cannot deny what he's seen with his own eyes and to try is to insult his intelligence. 

He pushes you, and the rough brick of the inn presses into your back, rough and painful enough to  warrant a noise of complaint, which dies on your tongue when Jaskier's hands bracket you in place.  You let out a gasp, from the sharp pain of the bricks and the fact that he's  pushed you and is so  near .  With him so close, you can smell ale on his breath that you hadn’t seen him drink. Is that your breath? The proximity of your lover so close combined with the alcohol has your head spinning in a way that makes you worry you might just sink to your knees.  He looks beautiful. He always does, but somehow, now with chestnut locks falling into his eyes and glaring at you in a manner that is just on the right side of feral, he has your knees  shaking. You've never been attracted to dangerous men, but in this moment, with him having all but punched a man over you, you understand how so many women can fall over themselves for men like Geralt. 

“You weren’t  _ just  _ dancing, were you, Little Miss?” He growls, leaning in  until his face is but a centimetre away from your own. “You let him kiss you.” 

“He kissed me.” You attempt to correct him before realising you've basically said the exact same thing he did.  Jaskier growls at that, and slams his mouth into yours. It hurts a little, his kiss pushing your head back into the hard wall, mouth working harshly against your own and tongue prying  its way into your mouth,  world’s away from his usual way of kissing- all sweetness and light replaced by  something darker. Almost possessive. You try to move your hands up to grip the satin front of his  doublet only to have them pinned to the wall at either side of your chest.  His lips leave your own to move down to the  column of your throat , not quite kissing but more nipping at the skin. 

“ You let him kiss you .” He says darkly against the skin, warm breath fanning against cold skin  to make you shiver. 

“I didn’t kiss him-"

“You didn’t stop him either.” The words are almost a snarl, and your heart all but stills in your chest. 

“I didn’t know how! And I didn’t kiss him back, Jaskier, we both know I  wouldn't...” 

“I don’t believe in sharing.”  Funny statement. He’s made a name for himself by bedding married women, but the woman he isn’t courting being kissed is somehow a punishable offence?  _ What’s the difference,  _ you ask yourself,  while his lips ghost across your neck,  _ how is some man kissing you any different from what he used to do?  _ Teeth graze sensitive skin and you  bite back a moan when a thought enters your mind.  _ Those women weren’t  _ _ his. They were another man's wife, not someone he shares a bed with,  _ _ spends his days beside. He hasn’t ever needed to concern himself with the aftermath of adultery, save for running from nobles- never been jealous of who looks at  _ _ a woman that he cares for. _

At once, everything falls into place . All night makes so much more sense, how he had  tried to keep a grip on your hand as you slipped from his grasp to the bar, never to return as you joined the  fold to dance, t h e constant watching, the scowling at your dancing partner.  No sign of his usual animated chatter, no annoying Geralt,  just watching. Unending watching.  He wasn’t angry about the other musicians.  No, no, it was something completely different all together. 

“Are. Are you jealous?” You stammer out which only makes the Bard growl and  all but bite your neck, sucking on the skin in such a way that has you certain that there will be a bruise there in the morning.  A strange concept indeed.  Jaskier is all lover and no fighter, so the thought of him bruising your skin even through kisses is  something else. 

“Am I jealous of some ugly prick?” He raises an eyebrow and slowly raises to his full height once more, his knee slotting between your thighs and grinding oh so slowly against your sex. “No. What I am, is fucking angry. That some bastard is touching My Little Miss, that you would let him-" 

“ Y-Yours?” You stammer out as the meat oh his thigh  rubs against your clitoris. 

“I spend my days singing to you.” He nips at your neck. “My evenings holding you.” He laps at the bite with the flat of his tongue. “My nights fucking you.” His hands release your wrists, one moving up to grope your chest while the other moves down to tug your skirts up past your waist and slides into your undergarments to press the tips of his fingers to your sensitive pearl, letting out a ghost of a laugh upon feeling your fluids covering his digits. “I kiss you; I sleep with you, I live and breathe you and use my mouth on you until you can't even breathe. I think that rather makes you mine.” 

He says it in a manner that is so matter of fact that it makes your head spin.  His. Logically, you know you should be angry at him for being possessive- you aren’t his  partner, not his wife, not anything  more than a bed partner- but the way he says it has you dripping, walls clenching around  nothing at all while his leg  grinds against your cunt. His.  It leaves no room for argument or discussion, just a claim of ownership  that can’t be disputed, not that you would if your traitorous mouth would allow you to  form words.  You like that, as much as you know you shouldn’t . It makes you sound like a pe t or some kept whore, and the affectation in his voice only serves to remind you that he must be some  rich cunt and you should slap him for implying he could ever own you, but really, all you want is for him to breach you with his  calloused fingers, make your thighs quake.  To be owned  by him, at least right now, sounds perfect- to be filled with him until you know nothing but his name and  how his cock feels within you. 

“You're soaking.” He mutters, dragging his nose  against your skin. “ Is this for me? Or that prick?” He sounds so smug, but there's an undercurrent of  anger running under his playful tone. 

“Please... Please .” You whine out, biting your bottom lip so hard you taste blood . He chuckles, fingers deftly circling your clit without ever moving further.

“Please what,  Little Miss ?” He asks, his smile all teeth . “Please...?  Please stop touching you? Please let you go and be touched by that disgusting little-" 

“Finger me.” You cut him off earnestly, back arching off  of the wall and pressing your chest into his.  Melitele, it’s sad how wanton you’re acting, begging to be touched in a place where anyone could walk past the two of you.  Quiet is needed,  discretion to keep prying eyes away, but you don’t care who hears you as long as he stops playing these games and does what you both want him to do. 

“Me or-" 

“Gods above Jaskier, please. Please, Jaskier.” 

He smirks at that, and you force yourself forward to slam your mouth against his. The vibration against your lips lets you know he has more to say; always has more to say, is never silent. Normally, his voice is something you revel in; how it manages to make even the most mundane thing sound melodic, but if kissing him will keep him from talking more about the man inside then you can deal with him not speaking. Thankfully, though, he ceases his circling to instead push what feels like two fingers into you and your eyes water at the sudden movement. It’s not the first time he’s done this but it is the first time he’s done it with such intensity, thrusting his fingers with such force you're almost afraid it might bruise your cunt, the worry is short lived when the pleasure of it hits you all at once. He’s good with his hands, you’re reminded when you notice the neck of his lute bobbing with each movement of his arm. Musicians’ fingers, calloused from the fruits of his art and not labour, play you like he plays his lute and you bite down on your bottom lip to keep from making a sound, just to spite him. He loves it when you make noise, said once that it makes him sure that he's actually pleasing you, and it’s normally a sign that you two can afford the privacy to be so\- there is no privacy here, in an alley outside of a busy tavern where one loud moan could alert anyone of what the two of you were doing. It’s embarrassing how much the proximity makes you want to moan, and almost definitely why he's doing this here. Wants everyone inside, but mostly the blond man, to know how little it takes for you to fall apart for him. That travelling partner definitely isn’t the right term for what he is to you, even if you don’t know what the right words to describe him are. 

“Come now, Little Miss.” He coos quietly, fingers on the hand not currently working you into a stupor  tracing the visible edges of your teeth. “Sing for me.”  His face shifts to your neck and presses a soft kiss to it, before nipping at it, nipping  turning to biting and sucking as soon as it had started. His fingers gather more momentum when a third breeches into you and then  _ crooks _ into a spot that has you seeing stars. A  noise that verges on a scream ,  masked by a sudden burst of loud music and cheering  within the pub , escapes you which makes Jaskier grin and peck your lips before retracting his fingers all together. 

“Jaskier-" You hiss, eyes narrowed to slits, but stop when he drags your hand to his trousers and places it on top of his cock. The dark had done enough to conceal it from you, but with it beneath your hand you can feel it, hard and throbbing beneath the fancy fabric. It’s good to know that, jealousy aside, he isn’t angry enough to not want you. Dark lashes brush against his cheekbones and his head slumps to the wall beside your head as soon as you touch him, letting out a wanton little moan. “Oh Jask.” Your voice turns tender and your grip on his member tightens as much as it can through his pants and you work it up and down the shaft, feeling how it twitches with every movement of your wrist. The first time this had ever happened, both of you drunk on ale that tasted like piss and hidden away in some cupboard in an inn, he had chuckled at how gentle your touch had been, going so far as to grab your wrist to guide your movements into something more pleasurable: but now he chokes out a moan of something that sounds like your name, hips stuttering in staccato thrusts to chase your hand. You drop your grip of him after a pump or two more, turning your head to press a gentle kiss to the exposed underside of his jaw. It’s little by means of an apology, but you see his lips turn up in a smile while he heaves out a sigh, hands sliding down to his trousers and unlacing them at a speed that reminds you of his strumming. 

“ Part your legs.” It’s spoken like a request, but you know it’s a demand and even if it wasn't, there was no way you could deny him . With an awkward sort of shuffle, you push your undergarments  down  to step out of them best that you can before leaning back against the wall and  letting your legs part. The skirts still  cover you, but you feel so exposed like this.  In the near pitch, you can hardly make out anything  save for how his arms move to shove his trousers down.  Darkness hides too much, you think, as you can’t even make out how his  member even looks in this light, but Melitele you feel it against your thigh when he steps closer to you.  A cold hand slides your skirt up once more and Jaskier steps between your legs , holding onto your thigh and guiding it onto his  hip.

“ Can I-"

“Fuck me, Jaskier, or I shall scream.” 

The moan that  escapes your lips is louder than you would like, but he chuckles and it’s enough to make your heart swell:  lips landing on your and moving gently against them as he thrusts into you . He's big, big enough to make your cunt feel full to bursting point each time  he enters you, and you can’t help but make noises  when he does. 

“There we go, Darling.” He murmurs against your mouth, making you wonder how he can string together a coherent sentence in moments like this.  “Gods, you’re so tight.” 

Thrusts grow faster and with each movement your moans grow louder even against his lips, you can feel them curl around yours. He tugs back from you after a little while and rests his forehead against the wall, breathing heavily. 

“You’re so good to me, Little Miss.” He breathes , grip turning to iron on your thigh. “You’re... perfect. My Little Miss. ” He speaks so much that his words  feel so much more natural than silence, more natural than anything in the world; bird songs,  trickling streams, Jaskier’s words.  “ You’re beautiful, and he wants you... everyone wants you.  I can’t lose you...”

“...You know I want you, don’t you?” You ask, voice cracking. The noise that he makes is somewhere between a moan and a sob, breathing shakily against the skin of your throat. “I can't imagine being without you, Dandelion. You... You have no need to be jealous of some stranger who tries to kiss me.” He whimpers, hips stuttering. He's close, far closer than you, but in this moment, you don't care at all. This isn’t about you. This is about him, and letting him know how much you care. Care in such a way that words alone will never be able to express. 

“You want me now.” He sighs, thrusts slowing and hand moving to rub your clit once more. “I know that. But you'll change your mind, Little Miss. Everyone does. I ought to savour the time we have...” He thrusts hard at the word savour, and you see white as his cock head hits that spot deep within that makes you weak. “But I know you’ll soon change your mind.” 

Oh. That, that was not what you anticipated at all- you had expected some sort of talk about how he wants you too, but this self-depreciation is new. Jaskier is always so confident and this is alien to you. There isn’t a time you know when he isn’t self-aggrandizing, preening and strutting like some fancy song bird, all too aware of how wonderful he is.

“I'll always want you.” You whisper and his head rises from the wall once more and instead rests his forehead against yours. “You. Just you. Wonderful, amazing you.” You mean it too.  He'll probably believe it to be drunken ramblings come morning,  but you mean every word. You love him, love him, love him. 

You love him. Have for far too long, really, far longer than is right to go without saying. It’s impossible not to love him, he’s a breath of fresh air, a beacon of light in a doublet, a lullaby you didn’t know you had forgotten, nostalgia for a life you've never known before. Jaskier. Wonderful, foolish Jaskier, who sings away each day and talks to you like he cannot imagine speaking to another soul, and does his best to stitch up your wounds while chiding you about how you worry him so. Jaskier, who has carried you on his back when he thinks you're limping behind, and sleeps with his arms wound around you and head burrowed between your shoulder blades. You love Jaskier. The thought overwhelms you, and you have to bite back the words to keep them from coming out. You seek his lips out once more, kissing him chastely. 

“I'll always want you too, Little Miss.” He admits, he thrusts hard into that spot and  presses on your clit and your vision blurs as you moan  so loudly your voice cracks, pleasure overtaking you and ensuring you can’t feel anything but pleasure and the rush of  his seed flooding into you. 

“I mean it, you know.” You say when the world settles once more, Jaskier pulling himself free of you and tucking himself back into his trousers. “About wanting you , I mean.”  _ I mean it. I shall want you till the day I die, till each star burns out and the nights no longer follow the day, till spring doesn’t come.  _ _ I want every part, every facet and secret, every regret and mistake  _ _ and treasured memory- and to make a million more.  _ _ I want to show you each scar and  _ _ hear every song. I love you. I have never loved anyone as I love you,  _ _ I will never again love as I have loved you. You  _ _ make a poet out of me, steal my senses, my very soul; and I want _ _ you to keep them until the day you are no longer mine to keep, and then keep them a thousand days beyond so I cannot feel  _ _ your absence. I love you. I want you. _

“You mean it now, Little Miss.” He says simply, hand taking yours.  “Now is enough.” He continues and squeezes your hand. 

_Now is enough,_ you think, _but forever is all you want._


End file.
